The French Mistake or The Misha Mixup
by TouchedBytheAngel
Summary: A little A/U within an A/U within an A/U. A/Uception. :P Dean and Sam come to the Twilight Zone in the French Mistake. Dean finds his Cas, turned into a quirky, funny, and completely ordinary man with a love of tweeting…and who doesn't remember him at all. He has no memory of the life they led, or the past they shared together.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One:**

**Winchester in Wonderland **

oOo

**Notes: So, this is pretty much just a crack fic. I saw a prompt on Tumblr, (I love Tumblr; it's full of those.) And I just ****_had _****to do it. I hope you enjoy, but if you don't, I'd welcome feedback! I should think of a name for my readers…like, Misha has "Mishamigoes." Hm…**

**B: I know that technically speaking, Jared is Canadian, so he probably would have a house like in the actual episode rather than a trailer. But my crack!fic logic is that he could be staying with Jensen for awhile since they've just started talking in the episode canon and the trailer is just there for carrying his costumes and stuff around. **

oOo

The window shattered with every bit of force that two men on the run from an angry angel could muster. The glass was sharp but almost plasticine; Dean didn't feel much pain, even. No, that came in when he slammed face first onto a decidedly hard fall-cushion surrounded by people staring at him.

"Cut!" A fat man in a director's chair says.

Then another guy is patting Dean on the rear. "Real good solid fall. Way to go."

_What?_

"Jared, Jensen! Outstanding!" The fat man praises. "That was just great."

The man who had been patting his ass calls out, "Supernatural," scene one echo, take one. Tail slate. Marker!"

_What the hell…_

oOo

"So…no angels?" Sam says hopefully.

Dean glances around the set. "No angels…I _think._" By the tone of his voice, Dean doesn't have much stock in the fact that they can't see any. They hear low voices in the background; the fat man is talking to some sort of crewmember arguing about the take. Sam looks at them appraisingly.

"Should we be killing anybody?"

"I don't think so. But don't take my word for it."

Sam nods, taking a step towards the window. "Do we run?"

"Where to?"

"Uhh…" he pauses, then stops mid-thought as he picks up a piece of the glass. It bends back and forth oddly, clearly made of some kind of gel.

"Dude, it's-"

"Jared! Jensen! That's a wrap," the crewmember minion says.

Dean looks dazedly around as he and his brother pick their way through the gelatinous wreckage and step outside.

"Who the hell are-" This universe seems determined to never let Sam finish his sentences.

"Jared!" A blonde woman with a mic hurries over, pulling at his arm. "Three minutes, okay? Great!" She smiles, not waiting for an answer.

Dean follows behind, clearly unwilling to be parted from the one thing that _isn't _for once giving him a headache. "Where are we going?!" He hisses.

"Ah, Jensen, there you are!" A brown-haired girl leads him away by the arm to a small room. "Let's get you into the chair…" She says absently, helping him to sit down.

"Chair?" Dean squirms.

"Yep…and let's just get this makeup off your face," she smiles, getting some sort of disposable cloth.

"Wha-I'm not wearing any ma-" Dean stops short when he sees what the cloth has wiped off; some sort of brown substance. He faintly remembers his mother putting some on once or twice…_foundation. _

"Oh, crap," he says to his own reflection. "I'm a painted _whore._"

oOo

When he comes back out, his brother is waiting for him with a nervous expression.

"They put freakin' makeup on us!" Dean growls. "Those bastards put _makeup _on m-"

"Look, I think I know who this is," Sam interrupts.

"Really? Who?" Whoever it is, Dean is going to punch their lights out.

"It's a TV show," his brother begins.

"Ya think?"

Sam rolls his eyes at his withering tone.

"Yeah. I mean, here-wherever "here" is, this-this twilight zone Balthazar zapped us into. For whatever reason, our life is a_ TV_ show."

"Why?" Dean can't keep the disgust from his voice.

"I don't know," Sam answers with a shrug.

"No, really." Dean's tone is angry. "_Why _would _anyone _want to watch our lives?"

"Well, according to that woman back there, not that many people do. Look, I'm not saying it makes sense. I'm just saying: we landed in some dimension where you're Jensen Ackles, and I'm something called a "Jared Padalecki."

"What, so now you're _Polish? _Is any of this making _any _sense to you?" He stalks down the wet street, his green eyes roving back and forth vindictively. Suddenly he pauses, and his expression softens. Sam smiles slightly as Dean hurries towards the old car.

"At least my baby made it," he sighs.

And then promptly bursts into a defensive tirade as yet another minion is seen throwing _mud _on the hood of his car. Sam pities his guts.

"Hey!" Dean shouts. "What the hell are you-" he stopped dead in his tracks. Sam is beginning to seriously consider the possibility of cardiac arrest. There are _three _more impalas in a neat row, all covered with some form of dirt, mud or clay.

"I want to go home," Dean moans, looking a little green. "I'm going to be _sick. _I feel like this whole place is bad-touching me."

"Man, I know. Me too. So, what do you think? Could we call Cas?"

"I dunno, but he's out best shot, assuming he's even alive." Dean's voice is quieter on the last phrase. He pauses by a trailer and bows his head ever so slightly.

"Dear Castiel, who art maybe running his ass away from Heaven, we pray that you have your ears on. So, uh, breaker…breaker…"

He looks up and looks around, but there is quiet.

"Maybe he can't reach us here, Dean," Sam warns.

"Maybe," Dean mutters, taking a few steps beyond the trailer. He grabs Sam's arm and shakes him.

"What? Is it Cas?" Sam whips around.

"No…but this might do."

Balthazar is standing in the parking lot.

"Balthazar! Hey, you. What is all this, huh? What did you do to us?" Dean demands.

Balthazar glances at the two of them, then begins, "To keep you out of Virgil's reach, I've just cast you into an alternate reality. You know, a universe similar to ours in most respects, yet dramatically different in others."

"Like, like Bizarro Earth, right? Except instead of having Bizarro Superman, we get this clown factory."

Balthazar shrugs, looking somewhat confused. "Um...Yeah, sure," he agrees in his clipped British accent. "Anyway, no time to explain. Do you have the key?"

"Yeah. You gave it to us, like, twenty minutes ago." He hands Balthazar the key from his jacket. "So, uh, what does this thing do, anyway?"

"It opens a room," the angel says absently, looking at it.

"What's in the room?" Dean inquires.

"Every weapon Cas is going to use from heaven."

"You gave it to us?" Dean raises an eyebrow.

"To keep it safe until Cas can reach you, anyway. With those weapons, he has a chance to rally his forces." Balthazar nods.

"Oh. Okay, good. Yeah. So, now, uh, what's the deal with all this TV crap?" Sam's voice is exasperated.

"Pardon?" Balthazar looks up from the key to stare at them.

"Yeah. Amen, Padaleski," Dean mutters.

"Uh, "lecki."' Sam corrects.

"What?"

"Lecki," Sam explains. "Pretty sure."

"Oh, God." Balthazar pulls out a script. "Did they put out new pages? _Again?"_ He grumbles.

"New what now?" Dean glances at the paper.

"I mean, is this some kind of cosmic joke?" Sam wonders.

"Yeah, 'cause if it is, it's stupid, and we don't get it," Dean puts in.

"Are you guys okay?" The angel in front of them inquires in some amusement.

Dean grabs the script from Balthazar, muttering, "Gimme that… What is- these are words in a _script_. This isn't Balthazar!"

"Dude, look at him," Sam groans.

Balthazar is unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a patterned new age t-shirt underneath. "You guys want to run lines, or what? Because my time is being wasted."

Dean and Sam are already turning away. "_What _is with the names around here?" Dean growls.

"What is with _everything _around here?" Sam snaps.

"Touché."

They keep walking until they spot a trailer-with a big label on it.

"Hey, look," Sam grins slightly. "J. Padalecki!"

"That's fake you…that must be fake yours," Dean reasons.

He pulls open the door and steps inside.

oOo


	2. Chapter 2: Hide, My Husband's Home

oOo

**Chapter Two:**

**Hide, My Husband's Home**

oOo

The trailer is full of stuff. Not in a messy, cluttered-up kind of way, but still full. Like a guy with money owns this trailer.

Dean is thinking there must be some mistake.

Sam's mind seems to be running along the same lines because he's currently staring at a 300 gallon fish tank that has no place in the Winchesters' lives. At least this guy has a laptop, though it's hard to concentrate through the Supernatural episodes playing on loop on the television above them. Dean studies fake-his face and is noticeably miffed to discover that he uses Blue Steel, too. Definitely creepy.

"Dean, look." Sam's skimming through Search the Web and seems to have lighted on something.

Dean leans down to get a better look at his fake-biography, (He decided he would be sticking the word "Fake" in front of a lot of stuff now.) He's from Texas, he was in two soap operas that make bile rise in his throat, and he drives a Cadillac.

Beyond all that, even the base treachery against his Impala, Dean's calm snaps when he sees a single word on the Wikipedia page:

Married (2002)

"I'm…married." He manages.

"Uh, yeah, that's what it looks like." Sam's face is partially concealed behind the screen, but Dean could swear he's grinning.

"Who…who in the hell would marry me?"

The question is spat, but it's not just hot air. Dean doesn't understand why anyone would marry him, not just because he's him, and he doesn't exactly have the best reputation for staying with women, but perhaps it's his life that's talking, too. They lead pretty crappy lives, most of the time, and although none of that seems to be here at the moment, it's still takes a moment for it to sink in.

"Relax, dude," Sam comforts. "You probably won't even meet her."

Dean nods, his eyes a little too wide. "Yeah. Sure."

Sam is starting to get all Moose-y and protective and Dean is not having that. So he stands up straight and gets himself together.

"It looks like you have a house not far from here," Sam clicks to enlarge the image. "Wanna go find it?"

"As long as whoever the hell I'm married to is far, far away."

Sam just chuckles.

oOo

Apparently, even actors in a show that not many people watch still get chauffeurs. Their big driver (Clint? It seems his name is Clif,) seems happy to take them wherever they want to go. He's full of questions,though. Why are you guys talking? When did that start? Are you seriously going to his house, Jared?

"Where even are we?" Dean mutters. His question is answered by a big green Welcome to Vancouver! sign flashing in the headlights. "Dude, we're not even in America."

Sam seems to be adjusting to this change slightly better than him. Maybe it's because apparently he's a rich bachelor who has a nice job acting and a fake-brother he doesn't talk to. He's pretty relaxed as they get out of the car and head into the Ackles residence.

More like Ackles mansion.

"Nice house, Jay-Z," Sam cranes his neck to look around.

Dean nods dumbly. Great. Another thing to get his hackles up.

The house isn't all that bad, though. Sure it's big, and spacious, and about as un-impala as it can get, but Dean still feels like this is some place he could live in in another lifetime. There are simple brown leather sofas in the living room, the kitchen is big but clean, and there's just a general lot of wood and leather and clean. It's soothing, in a way.

Dean flops down on the couch and closes his eyes, completely exhausted. It's not like anyone can blame him; even Sam, who's exploring, seems quiet.

He can't relax though, which leads him to his next thought: alcohol. If he and this guy had one thing in common, let it be that.

He stands up, eyes scanning the room. Sam catches his eye as he heads towards the inconspicuous brown box. Hell, there should be a shrinefor how expensive this stuff is.

"Thank God," Dean mutters, pouring himself a glass of golden-brown liquid.

Sam picks up a bottle with a blue paper label and a woman with a snake wrapped around her. "What kind of alcohol is that?"

Both men started violently and turned to the balcony as a new voice cut through the silence.

"It's Snake Oil, dumbass."

Dean is beginning to wonder if there isn't something in that brandy he just drank, because he's seeing Cas glare at his brother.

oOo

They can hear Cas coming down the stairs, and Sam looks as scared as he is, so obviously Dean isn't imagining things. He's almost wishing that he was. In some ways, this new world is proving to be just as freaky as the old one with all the angels and demons and crap.

Cas approaches them; he's wearing a dark blue jacket over a clean white shirt and jeans. His face looks fresher, and younger, in a way, and he smiles at Dean in a way that Cas never has. It's carefree, and happy. Dean smiles back faintly, not because he meant to, but because he can't help it. It's one of those smiles that it doesn't matter who's smiling at you; you just return it.

Then it vanishes into shock as Cas asks, "So, how was your day, baby?"

And he reaches up and kisses him.

Dean can't even react, he's so stunned. Cas' lips are warm and surprisingly soft, with a hint of stubble. He lets him go a moment later and peers up at him.

"What is it?" His voice is faintly tinged with concern.

"I-I…" Dean turns helplessly towards his brother. Sam is not in much better condition that Dean is. His eyes are frozen wide and his mouth hangs open. He shuts it as Dean addresses it.

"The-the site said you were married," he flails.

Dean feels a wave of panic. "Dude, I married fake Cas!"

"Actually, it's Misha, just in case you didn't read the marriage certificate when you signed it," "Misha" is glaring at Sam again.

"Misha?" Dean rolls the name on his tongue. "What kind of name is that?"

"Jewish. You asked that the day we met," Misha rolls his eyes. "What's going on with you, Jensen?"

There was that Jensen thing again.

"Cas?" Sam has apparently not gotten past the Cas just kissed my brother bit.

"Ah, yes, because that never gets old, Jared. What do you want?" There's veiled hostility in his tone and Dean wonders what's causing it.

"Yeah, just, uh, thought I'd pop in, say "hey." Hey. Uh, and-and maybe run some lines. It's..." Sam trails off.

"You've never even been to our house," Misha notes.

"Well, now that I know that you have snake oil, I'm definitely coming back," Sam grins weakly.

"Well, snake oil is the healthiest oil," Misha nods, somewhat mollified.

"Right. Right. That is so important," Dean mutters.

Misha's look is one of utter betrayal. For the barest moment, Dean sees Cas in the hurt in his blue eyes.

"It's for GISHWES," He sighs, as if he's giving up. "Alright, well, there's the event I have to get to."

"Event?" Dean inquires.

"For the international GISHWES promotion?" Misha asks. "God, Jensen, how much brandy did you drink?"

Not nearly enough, Dean wants to say, but he doesn't. That look has sobered him strangely and he doesn't want to see it again.

Misha seems to not care, however, as he presses a (second) conciliatory kiss to Dean's startled mouth. "I'm glad you two are talking, anyway," he admits, before giving him a smile and heading out the door.

There is silence for about five seconds, and then Dean holds up a hand.

"Not. A word."

Sam closes his mouth and continues looking confused.

Dean's head is spinning as he almost runs into the living room. "We need to get home."

oOo

Ten minutes later found them both on the computer, searching eagerly for the ingredients they needed for the spell. Dean kept reaching up and touching his mouth as if it had been burned until Sam can't keep quiet.

"Hey, man, are you…okay?"

Dean's face is bleak. "What do you think?"

"Well, it could be worse," Sam tries. "I mean…I don't know if you've ever wanted that with…" he flushes. "But it looks like you've done pretty okay here."

Pretty okay.

Why did it take another world for him to have this? He's loved back here. But not by Cas. By some human being who has his face and smile but not his thoughts. Who will never be Cas.

Sam is watching him, and his big Moose eyes look sad, for some reason.

"I'm sorry," he manages finally. "I know this must be tough."

"Ha. Yeah. That doesn't begin to cover it. But I shouldn't bitch; you're here and we're in this together." His mustered bravado fails as soon as the words leave his mouth, but fortunately Sam forgoes speech for ordering the wrist bone of a saint.

Over the course of the evening they manage to order everything needed that they don't already have, and by the time his husband comes home, Sam's retired to the guest house.

oOo


	3. Chapter 3: Jay-Jay the Confused Hunter

oOo

Chapter Three:

Jay-Jay the Confused Hunter

oOo

**Notes: Chapter Title, as some of you may notice, is a reference to the kid's show Jay-Jay the Jet Plane. It was **

Dean's sipping a beer and feeling pretty relaxed when the front door suddenly opens with a click. Misha saunters in, (Maybe _saunter_ is too strong a word; more like _casually ambled,) _and hangs up his coat on one of the racks. He's humming this odd little tune to himself and he has on a comfortable looking blue t-shirt that almost matches his eyes. Dean realizes he's staring at him suddenly and blinks, trying to focus on something else than the oddly adorable sight of Misha stroking his jacket with absent-minded ease. He smoothes down the back as if to get rid of an invisible wrinkle.

Dean moved towards him quickly, holding the beer tightly in one hand. "Hey! Hey. Hi, uh, Mish? Misha?" He's fully aware of the fact that he's floundering pathetically.

"Misha's fine, Jay-Jay," his not-actually-husband responds, deadpan.

_Jay-Jay?_

"Is that uh…actually…my nickname?" Dean manages.

Misha gives him a confused little smile. "Not usually. Why? Do you like that one better?"

Dean tries to refrain from adamantly shaking his head. "No! I mean, um, not really…I'm fine with the…with the first one…whatever that was."

Misha just shakes his head as if to say, _Yes, my husband is officially crazy. Let's move on. _

"Yeah," Dean bravely plunged forward again. "Um, so, how was the...Gushy thing?"

"It's "GISHWES", and it was good." Misha smiles again. "Everybody missed you there."

"Oh. Wow. I bet." Dean goes for "playfully humorous" and ends up with "sadly serious." So-so listen, I-I got to ask you a question. Do you remember, uh, year before last, all those disasters?"

"Disasters?" Misha repeats.

"Yeah. Yeah, the whole earthquake spike. You know, the 9.2 in Rome? I mean, the 8.5 outside Boston? The whole east/west tsunami chain?" Dean tries.

Misha nods slowly. "Yes. I remember all of those… from last season on our show."

"No, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah." To say he feels like an idiot is putting things lightly. _Put me in a hole in the ground and bury me _was somewhat more accurate. "I-I know. That's what I mean. That's what I was..." He trails off, staring down at his beer bottle.

Misha looks at him for a moment, and Dean's struck by the fact that his face isn't irritated or creeped out like it should be. Like it would be if Dean were here and his husband started acting like this. It's a vague look of confusion, and concern, yeah, but it's also just…soft. That's the only word Dean can really describe it as. Misha's looking at him _softly. _

"You have been Dean Winchester _way_ too long." He leans up and kisses him again.

This time, Dean reciprocates. Just…barely.

He's startled as Misha takes his free hands, weaving their fingers together. "Come on."

Dean looks down at their joined hands, trying to avoid the fact that it feels…nice. He follows Misha up the stairs, watching the edge of his t-shirt ride up just slightly over his jeans when he pulls forward.

And no, he's definitely _not_ staring at Misha's ass.

oOo

As soon as they're upstairs, Misha disappears into the closet, presumably to change clothes. Dean doesn't follow, but he does look around. His beer bottle is (unfortunately) empty, so he throws it away in the wicker trash can in the bathroom and examines the actual bedroom. There's a big, four-poster bed, again going with the whole _Wood, leather and green _feel, and it's nice. It's slightly old-fashioned, and there's a warm green comforter on it and clean white sheets.

Wow, the gay style of living was mind-blowingly different to that of a normal person's.

Dean huffs a laugh at that thought; he's never had a problem with that kind of thing, really. You love who you love, right? He just couldn't really picture himself doing it until…well. Let's say until a certain angel decided to show up.

He'd tried. He really, really had tried not to get involved. Some days it made him feel like a hormonal teenage girl caught in a love triangle between an angel and a lifestyle, and some days, he didn't really care. It's not like Cas knew, or ever would know. The only other person who knew was Sam, and he wasn't going to be telling anybody.

But this place, this bedroom, is such a physical reminder that in this world, this is _real _and he _sleeps _here with another man who loves him and thinks he's still his same old actor husband. It sends an unexpected pang through Dean's heart; because that's all kinds of crappy. He already feels like an asshole not only for leaving Misha in the dark, but for letting him think that Dean knows him, and loves him too.

And now, there was the problem of being here. Technically speaking, he could be stuck here indefinitely. What if he had to get used to _this _version of the angel he left behind to fight their battles. He glances up at the ceiling, as if expecting Castiel to materialize like he so often does and bring him back.

But he doesn't.

Misha chooses that precise moment to come out of the closet, padding over towards him.

"What is it?" He inquires, trying to look at the exact spot where Dean was glancing at a few seconds ago. "Is something wrong with the ceiling?"

Dean smiles slightly. "Nope. Not that I'm aware of, anyway."

He turns to look at Misha, aware that he's still in his acting clothes. Misha's in a soft white t-shirt and plaid red, black and white pyjama bottoms. His dark hair is messy from where he didn't brush it after changing, and his tanned skin stands out against the white.

Sam would approve of the plaid.

Misha sees him staring, and a little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You keep looking at me like it's the first time you're seeing me. Should I be flattered or concerned?"

Dean manages a weak chuckle. "Would both work?"

Misha grins and moves around towards the bed. "You'd better get changed, Mister Hunter. I want my fair share of quality time with a celebrity."

This time, Dean's smile comes before he realizes it. "I'm not that famous, you know, apparently."

"Oh, bull." Misha moves to sit on the bed, sitting on top of his hands like he wants to keep them warm. It's oddly endearing, and Dean has the sudden urge to rub his hands instead. The bedroom is a little cold.

"Okay," he says after the barest pause. "I'll go get changed and then you can interview me or whatever you'd like."

As he moves towards the closet, he hears Misha's response, "How about I interview your ass?"

Dean's face feels like it's caught fire and he practically scampers into the enclosed room. He can still hear Misha laughing.

Inside the room that's about the size of a tool shed, he rummages around as carefully as possible. No good disrupting any clothes. He finally finds the rack with a pile of pyjama-style clothes and hopes to God they're his. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a soft grey t-shirt that has a nice smell to it. It kind of reminds him of his favourite pie; warm and comforting. It's just a little tight but maybe that's because Jensen Ackles likes wearing tight shirts for his hot husband when he goes to bed.

Dean feels another blush spreading across his face. He just called Misha hot, in cold blood. What is going on with him? He folds up his actor clothes and sets them on the shelf in place of the pyjamas and comes back out again.

Misha's sitting on the bed, looking at something on a tablet. The light from the screen makes his blue eyes glow, and Dean watches him for just a moment too long before coming over, a little awkwardly.

Misha doesn't look at him until he's on the bed, about a foot of space between them. Then he sets down his tablet momentarily, a smile breaking over his face.

"You've never worn my clothes to bed before."

Ah, crap. Dean wants to punch himself. So _that's_ why the shirt was too friggin' tight. God, the idiocy goes on.

But Misha doesn't look upset. He reaches up one hand and does that little smoothing thing with his palm over his chest, doing it three or four times before dropping it again and looking up at him. Dean's still staring down at him, his breathing soft. It's like he's afraid to exhale and the moment will burst into fragments.

But it doesn't.

"Why are you so far away?" Misha wonders, breaking the silence.

Dean looks down at the empty space in between them and scoots to the right about an inch. Misha rolls his eyes and tugs him over until their shoulders are pressed together. Then he practically _snuggles _into Dean's side until he's forced to move one arm to wrap around him loosely.

"So, uh, what are you looking at there?" Dean inquires, trying to do anything to distract Misha from the flush on his face.

Misha picks up the tablet again and switches it on. The desktop is…a picture of the two of them. What's more is that it's a really nice picture. The two of them look really happy, well, Misha does. Dean (Or Jensen, technically,) is staring at the camera with a vaguely possessive air like, "Back off, he hugged me first."

Misha sees him looking at it and grinned. "Oh, yeah, I just changed it yesterday. Do you like it?"

Well, thank God he at least doesn't look like an idiot. "Yeah," he answers, and he really does. It's…a nice picture.

"So, this is what I was thinking." Misha opens up some app on the tablet with a grid that looks like seating arrangements. "There're more than eighty new participants than we had last year. Since this one is taking place in a hotel, I thought we could use the atrium where they have social events for the send-out. But I'm worried that if we do that, it'll be difficult for our surprise guests to come in without being seen. And, obviously, we can't just tell people to leave room." He looks up at Dean, his brow furrowed in this cute little expression of indecision. "What do you think?"

He lets Dean hold the tablet, even though he has no idea what he's doing, and look at it like he has _some _idea he can give. Misha's watching him like he's _certain _he's going to pop out a solution at any second, and Dean strangely doesn't want to disappoint him.

"Okay…well…let's see…" he mutters. Then he smiles suddenly. It's probably a crappy and pre-thought-of idea, but anything's worth a shot. "What about behind this curtain? It looks like there's a good four feet of room where they keep equipment and stuff, but they could move that to one side and let the guest-people stand there until it's time. Then they could either go through the curtain and make a dramatic entrance, or just to the side."

A happy smile bursts over Misha's face, and a warm feeling tugs at the base of Dean's stomach. "A dramatic entrance…" he muses. "We could totally make them lose their shit!" He practically giggles, and Dean lets a small grin that wants to come out pull at his mouth. Misha looks like an evil little kid who's going to freak their parents out. That's probably what's going to happen, actually. The thought makes his smile widen.

"I like it," Misha announces, switching the tablet off and setting it down. "I'll ask about how much stuff is behind there."

"Okay," Dean nods, because he's not sure what else to say. What do people _talk _about in bed, before sleeping? Sure, he's been in bed with plenty of women, and one guy in a bar in Tampa that he's not going to think about, but they didn't ask him for his opinion and they _certainly _didn't have casual little talks before going to sleep. It's oddly domestic, and sort of soothing.

Misha sighs contentedly, curling up so that he's not just sitting next to Dean, but he's leaning into the side where his arm is wrapped around Misha, his head tucked into the crook Dean's neck. His hair is soft and smells…it smells really good. Exactly like the shirt Dean's wearing, come to think of it. He closes his eyes, and for a few moments just lets himself breathe it in, ignoring all the crap that's happened since he got here and just…breathing.

"You okay?" Misha inquires about two minutes later, breaking the silence.

Dean nods. He doesn't want to speak just yet.

"You're just a bit…quiet," he continues, glancing up at his face. His face is so completely trusting and comfortable; like he's exactly where he wants to be. It makes that funny feeling in his stomach pull again. Dean looks down at him, his arm instinctively tightening. Why the hell is this now _instinctual? _He's hugged Cas once, maybe twice, and he definitely didn't _snuggle _him. But this feels like that's exactly what's taking place. And, somewhere in the part of his mind that Dean is studiously ignoring, he feels…protective. This man has no idea of the life he's led; of all the horrible things and the good things and the grey-shaded things he's done. Right now, he's just a man curled up with someone he thinks is his husband sharing a chat before bed. Guilt rolls over him again. This guy-Misha-doesn't deserve this. He deserves the man he actually _knows, _but that man doesn't seem to exist anymore. So indefinitely, he's taking his place. He can't just…let him down on it. Though it would be easy to, Dean doesn't _want _to.

He's stuck in a love-triangle again of guilt and curiosity and happiness.

God.

"Anyway. We should sleep," Misha yawns, getting up to brush his teeth. He pauses halfway there, turning. "Coming?"

Apparently they brush their teeth together. There are worse habits.

"Yeah, yeah, coming." He slides off the bed and follows.

The bathroom is clean and full of a soft golden coloured marble. The sinks are golden with royal blue on the handles. Dean finds his electric tooth brush beside Misha's and gets caught up in watching his not-actually-husband brush his own.

He wets the toothbrush with toothpaste on it and brushes his own teeth for as long as Misha does. He's never used an electric toothbrush before and it makes him smile slightly. Misha catches it in the mirror, (How does he always do that?) and smiles up at him. There's toothpaste on the corner of his lip and then Dean _lifts _his hand and freaking _wipes _it off. Deliberately, thoughtlessly. The oxymoron makes complete sense.

Misha looks at him strangely for a moment, and he looks like he might be about to give him another (toothpaste) kiss, but Dean ducks down quickly and rinses his mouth out. When he stands up, Misha's already padded off to the bedroom.

Dean uses the bathroom and stares at his reflection alone in the mirror.

What is he getting himself into?

He comes out of the bathroom almost cautiously. The lights are off and there's a dark lump in the bed which he assumes is Misha. At least he hopes it is; his nerves are still on edge.

He crawls into bed, and though he doesn't want to admit it, he's bone-tired. He's expecting to just roll over and got to sleep, but freezes suddenly as Misha wraps his arms around his middle, spooning him.

Dean has never been spooned in his life and he's friggin' terrified.

Mostly because of the fact that it feels amazing. It's warm and solid, and when Misha begins rubbing his hands over his belly Dean feels his worries melting. He pulls up the coverlet, wrapping it around them both.

"Mm…love you…" Misha murmurs sleepily, pressing a kiss into his hair.

Dean doesn't kiss him back, but he presses against his chest and closes his eyes.

He's asleep within two minutes.

oOo


End file.
